


sinking like a stone in the sea

by harvardhands



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-24
Updated: 2015-04-24
Packaged: 2018-03-25 12:28:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3810397
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/harvardhands/pseuds/harvardhands
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"The first time it happens, you have been in Polis for weeks now, lost in the colorful crowd and a new identity that no one dares to question. (Or maybe they do no not have the heart to—you think they must know; after all, they are so alive and you are hanging on by a soft, fluttering heartbeat.)"</p><p>[Clarke and Lexa, in the context of Brand New.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	sinking like a stone in the sea

**Author's Note:**

  * For [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts).



> basically, Brand New is one of my favorite bands (saw them live at Iron City in Alabama—they're unreal) and so i know most of their catalogue, which made it easy to make the connections with their music and Clarke x Lexa. it gave me the idea to start a series of short drabbles (AU and canon) inspired by a few of their songs. which means you all get to suffer with me. i'm going to dedicate this to Chandler as a way early birthday present :-) let me know what you think, enjoy (or cry) xx

_“Take me back to your bed;_  
_I love you so much that it hurts my head._  
_Say I don’t mind you under my skin,_  
_I’ll let the bad parts in.”_  
—“degausser,” brand new

*

The first time it happens, you have been in Polis for weeks now, lost in the colorful crowd and a new identity that no one dares to question. ( _Or maybe they do no not have the heart to—you think they must know; after all, they are so alive and you are hanging on by a soft, fluttering heartbeat_.)

 

Lexa must have known of your presence the moment you stepped into the eyeline of the warriors guarding the towering stone gates.

 

( _She does not look for you. You think it might be her way of asking for forgiveness_.)

 

When you see her in the middle of the city square, surrounded by a crowd of adoring, lively children, you make eye contact before turning away. It takes a strangled, desperate minute for you to see past the anger bubbling in the pit of your stomach. You tell yourself that that is all it is, anyway—that no part of it has to do with the sudden memory of Lexa’s gentle hands, her patient mouth ( _You think you might start choking from the bile prickling heavily at the back of your throat_.)

 

 

It is not surprising, then, when she quietly enters the humble, comfortable home you have been inhabiting, announcing her presence by treading a little heavily. It has been hours since you first saw each other again and you have only just begun to feel as though you are in control of your hands again. ( _You feel sick that she knows you have not forgotten her step_.)

 

 

“Clarke,” she says. Her voice is foreign and familiar all at once, like you are nostalgic for a place you have never been.

 

 

She is coming to you as Lexa, soft-spoken and alone. The thought gnaws at you from underneath your sternum.

 

“Don’t,” you hear yourself croak out. You swipe at the hot, sudden tears that pool at the edges of your eyes.

 

She does not ask you what you mean by that, but she does stop talking altogether, standing silently by the doorway. When you look up, she is framed by the soft light of your candles, and she looks so very young—like she has not left death in her wake. You wonder if you will always taste the bitter tang of betrayal like blood in your mouth at the sight of her, lovely and serious and sad. Her eyes are greener than you remember, a deep emerald shimmering with something you cannot—and do not want to—reconcile with.

 

( _You wonder if wanting her will always be this desire to consume, to decimate, this unslakable thirst for destruction. It might be the only way you have left to love inside of you_.)

 

When you kiss her, she is pliant and open beneath your burning palms, giving you every bit of herself that she has left to spare. You take greedily from her, your tongue committing the ridges on the roof of her mouth to memory, your fingertips digging into the sharp jut of her hipbones hard enough to leave bruises. Still, you think, it is only a fraction of what she has torn from you; sometimes you think you can see pieces of yourself tucked away at the corner of her mouth.

 

( _But you know it is not real. Lexa has never taken what you did not willingly give. It is a dull throb at the center of your chest every time you remember the sight of her back when she left you to die_.)

 

When she comes, Lexa is fragile and melting, keening softly into the hollow of your shoulder. She holds onto your shoulders like she thinks you will slip away and you realize then that she has only allowed her eyes to shut in this moment. You are suddenly no longer afraid of her teeth at your neck, but you still feel the betrayal aching—an open wound oozing between you.

 

She meets your gaze for a moment and you see—you _feel_ —the weight of regret and shame splintering her bones. It is gone when you feel her press inside of you, her movements desperate and restless and unrestrained. You claw at her back until you feel certain that her blood will linger beneath your fingernails for days (It does not make you feel better, but it feels like some form of catharsis).

 

“ _Lexa_ —” Her name stumbles out of your mouth before you can think to stop it, but the heady pleasure clouding your mind makes it easier not to care.

 

( _You still have to pretend you do not notice the way her breath catches at the sound, or how you can taste the ache for forgiveness curled thickly around her tongue_.)

 

She is mouthing her way across your collarbone, lips moving in a silent prayer—or maybe in penance. She is messy and unfocused in her movements, but you know you will not require much more effort than that. When you grind out another moan through your clenched teeth, Lexa leans forward and kisses you hard enough to leave a bruise blooming on the slick inside of your bottom lip ( _You hope you will replace the memory of your first kiss—slow and careful—with this one, this unforgiving, punishing thing_.)

 

You come soon after that and then Lexa is looking at you with this unbearable softness in her gaze—you think you know all the ways to pull her apart limb from limb, now. There is a feeling of twisted absolution before it gives way to molten shame crawling through your gut.

 

You button your pants and turn to your side on the bed, forcing your breathing to slow enough so that Lexa thinks you are asleep ( _She won’t, not really_ ). You do not look at her again.

 

She leaves without a word.


End file.
